


J.C. Leyendecker was a complex man

by Zigster



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Art centric story, Arthur thinks he’s having a bad day but he’s not, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Philadelphia, TattooArtist!Eames, Tattoos, anxious!arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: “You bought me coffee?”“You’ve come all the way from New York, my dear Arthur. It’s the least I could do.” He spread his heavily inked arms out in a welcoming gesture as he said this, smiling warmly. Arthur swallowed. Firstluvand nowmy dear.What the hell was next - pumpkin? This wasn’t going at all how Arthur had pictured. Not that it was going badly, per se, just . . . he hadn’t expected pet names and hipster coffee from a world-famous, underground graffiti cum tattoo artist who prided himself on being mysterious. He didn’t think anyone would.





	J.C. Leyendecker was a complex man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [versions91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/versions91/gifts).



> _Based on the prompt: Just say it_
> 
>  
> 
> I really, really hope that you like tattoos, Versions! 
> 
> Beta’d by the lovely Queuebird and Oceaxe. Thank you, you precious, beautiful creatures for your time, patience, and continual encouragement. 
> 
> Brief mention of prescription drug use and death of a minor character (off-screen and in the past) - this story is a happy, fluffy mess of boy meets boy, I promise. I’m just giving fair warning up front.
> 
> Any and all mentions of hideous knitwear are in honor of Wysiwygot.

**J.C. Leyendecker was a complex man**

* * *

 

Arthur stepped off the El at Girard, took one look around at the sodden, dirt-smeared concrete of the elevated train platform and sighed. Philadelphia seemed to have an extra layer of grime coating every surface. This was not the charming, Hollywood version of Philly where Rocky would run up an endless staircase in his sweats--this was the ten o’clock news version, where crackheads roamed and stray pit bulls sniffed at discarded chicken bones on street corners. There was a homeless man slumped against the requisite commuter bench, and a young woman with a massive pair of headphones and a fur-lined bomber jacket standing just in front of him, blowing a bubble with her gum, oblivious to the poverty sitting behind her. The man saw Arthur staring and nodded in his direction, lifting a greased-stained cup from his side. Arthur dug around in his pockets, found a few loose coins and tossed them into the tune of a slurred ‘god bless’ as he passed.

 

Arthur noted that the red terracotta tiles underfoot were mysteriously wet, despite the lack of rain and the protective roof overhead. He side-stepped an _actual_ puddle as he exited the turnstile and jogged hastily down the steps to street level, wanting to leave the oppressive stench of piss and puke and damp behind him in the stairwell. Rounding the corner onto the open-air pavement only made matters worse as a wave of diesel-fueled air wafted over him thanks to a row of buses idling by the curb, patiently waiting for their early evening occupants.

 

He walked along the street that ran parallel to the train line above his head, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets and burying his nose into his upturned collar. Trash littered the ground beneath his Berluti brogues as another train rumbled over him, its brakes screeching to an abrupt halt followed by a hiss of released compressed air. He hurried his steps, wanting to escape from such an overabundance of stimulus. Trains were meant to travel underground in the civilized world. What fresh, wet, rubbish-filled hell had he willingly come to?  

 

His mind raced ahead of him while his heart rate spiked in his chest, his anxiety getting the better of him as people shoved by, shoulders bumping, legs shifting, steps dodging--it was all too much. He could barely catch his breath. No one deliberately shoved into him in Brooklyn. Did he have a sign saying ‘New Yorker here! Be sure to scuff his shiny shoes’ plastered to his back?

 

Turning right onto Thompson Street, as his phone instructed, he was given a momentary reprieve from the rush of commuters he’d just left behind. He jogged the short block towards Frankford Avenue, making a left and easily spotting the tattoo parlour just across the way, down past several run-down garage fronts. Arthur sighed again, more in annoyance than relief, but the view of the converted red-brick factory building allowed his pulse to ease. He was close to his destination, and soon the quiet interior of the studio would greet him, and the soothing buzz of the needle would press into his skin, allowing him a respite from the cacophony of chaos that was his never-resting brain.

 

Arthur had discovered the cathartic bliss of being tattooed at the ripe old age of sixteen when he had wandered into a shop off of Regent Street in London while on a family trip. His parents, being the progressive, Jewish, born-and-raised New Yorkers that they were, saw the look of awe on their son’s face and after a quick discussion amongst themselves and a brief consultation in regards to the health and safety practices of the establishment, allowed Arthur to adorn his body with his first piece of ink.

 

Of course, just because they were letting their son alter his body permanently didn’t mean that there weren’t a few ground rules in place for what he was to choose. It had to be something unique, his mother had told him, bold and real. So, Arthur, having recently discovered the truth of his own sexuality not a year prior, chose a sketch from one of his ever-present moleskins tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. It was a line drawing of an original black and white photograph by Peter Hujar of a man’s boot-clad feet as he lounged back on the wooden railing of a pier, his bare legs crossed and cropped in a such a way that the triangle of his knees were all the viewer could see, his torso and face a forever mystery. The evocative image had been hanging in the hallway of their family home back in Brooklyn for as long as Arthur could remember. His mother had been friends with the artist, and Arthur had spent many an afternoon staring at it from his perch at the kitchen counter while he was supposed to be finishing his homework, contemplating why the strength in those furried thighs and the crumpled look of the tennis socks had him straining in his seat.

 

In the years since the lines of that first tattoo had faded and blurred but the stark contrast of its simplistic design, worn proudly on his left thigh, still shown through on his alabaster skin, which was now marked sporadically from collarbone to kneecap in artistic swirls and complicated designs of glorious ink. He had adorned himself throughout the past decade with the same painstaking attention an oil painter would give to laying out a composition on a large canvas. He chose pieces that would allow the viewer’s eye to travel along his body the way Arthur wanted. From the sacred number ‘18’ resting on the soft pad of his shoulder down the cascading tides of water inspired by Hokusai’s _The Great Wave off Kanagawa_ to the scrawl of chicken-scratch cursive of his grandmother’s Yiddish poetry, curving around the cap of his knee in flowing ripples.

 

His newest piece lay ahead of him still, waiting to be punched into his skin by the skilled hands of a well-known and greatly admired artist he’d been following for quite some time through social media. He was a mystery Brit who’d been a graffiti legend in his youth (supposedly best mates with Banksy according to The New Yorker) who only went by his tag name, Eames. He never appeared in front of the camera himself, preferring his art to do the visual talking, but if anyone was ever lucky enough to photograph him, he would always be donning a paisley kerchief tied tightly over his face, allowing only his sharp, blue eyes to be seen. There were even whispers in a few select circles that Banky's famous  _Flower Thrower_  was not a self-portrait, as most of the world assumed, but a stenciled representation of Eames lobbing daises as opposed to a Molotov cocktail. Neither of them had commented on the rumors when asked.

Eames' waitlist as a tattoo artist was two years long and growing, and Arthur had only weaseled his way into his good graces by calling in a favor from a former classmate, fellow artist, and mutual friend.

 

Yusuf had been tight-lipped about the details, considering Eames’ whereabouts were always kept highly under wraps, but he assured Arthur that Eames was stateside on a self-imposed sabbatical, doing a stint in the shop of a ‘ _close mate_ ’ in Philadelphia. He’d been using the name Mr. Rogers to maintain anonymity, and was occasionally seen walking to and from the shop wearing red Converse high-tops and an endless array of hideous, too-large cardigans in homage of his (current) namesake.  Arthur had jumped at the opportunity to book an appointment with _Mr. Rogers_ , who didn’t have a waitlist of any kind and was happily taking on new clients for consultations.

 

Forgoing his pride and accepting that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance that he could not pass up, no matter how much he despised crossing state lines, Arthur made the trip down to the secondary city with butterflies in his belly (and half a Xanax in his pocket) to have the honor of being inked by one of the true greats of the millennial art world.

 

A bell chimed as he entered the shop, the smell of rubbing alcohol mixing with the potent tinge of coffee grinds drifting in from the café next door. Two heads popped up at the sound, one, the desk receptionist, and the other, a young, dark-haired woman sitting at a station near the front of the shop. She smiled politely at Arthur and then returned to her task, a forearm piece she was clearly in the middle of completing.

 

“Hello, I’m Arthur, I have an appointment with . . . Mr. Rogers?”

 

“Oh, yeah. He’s expecting you. He’s just next door grabbing a coffee. He said to offer you a ‘cuppa’ if you’d like one?”

 

It was obvious from the receptionist’s voice that she wanted a quick and clear answer, and yet, Arthur could only blink. What an oddly magnanimous gesture. Was this normal protocol? Arthur certainly didn’t think so, not for an artist such as Eames. Weren’t they supposed to be steadfast and tight-lipped and, oh, he didn’t know, brooding somewhere in a dark corner until the last possible moment when they’d appear and done their black gloves to ink mastery into his skin?

 

“I’m good. Thank you.”

 

Behind him, the doorbell chimed.

 

“Oi, Angela, is my four o’clock here yet?” a rasp of a British accent hollered, jovial and boisterous. Arthur stiffened and turned, taking in the bulk of a man walking towards him, not a paisley kerchief in sight, and with no less than four to-go cups in a recyclable carrier in his hand.

“You must be Arthur.” The man smiled at him, his face crinkling with mirth and kindness as he approached. Arthur wondered if the scruff hugging the man's jaw spoke of a lackadaisical approach to his morning routine or the future hopes of a beard. Arthur touched a hand to his chin, self-conscious of his own smooth skin. He'd shaved for the appointment. He wanted to look presentable. This man didn't look presentable at all, he looked like the kind of man you'd bring home to meet your parents if you wanted them to have a coronary. Arthur forced himself to not take a step backward and swallowed his growing nerves. 

Eames put down the carrier of coffee and extended his hand. Arthur took it, feeling the warm, strong, secure palm of the man who was going to permanently mark him with his artistry in less than an hour. His grip was steady, solid. Arthur felt comforted by that, instantly. The fact that the man before him had the bone structure of a Greek god carved from marble and a smile that was wholly pleasant, yet full of potential mischief, was the worrying part. Arthur watched one side of Eames’ grin turn leering as he continued to blatantly stare at the man’s mouth.

 

Beside them, the receptionist coughed into a delicate fist.

 

Arthur cleared his throat and said, “Hi. Yes. I’m Arthur.”

 

“‘Course you are, luv. Now, which one would you like, hmm?”

 

Arthur blinked back at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“Coffee. Here, this one might do you.” He handed Arthur a cup without further explanation and then did the same to the receptionist behind the counter. She smiled at him, blushing, and he winked at her before turning back towards the shop at large, delivering the final extra coffee to his fellow artist working on the arm piece at the front, and then walking to what Arthur presumed was his station.

 

Arthur watched with rapt fascination as Eames threw off his monster of a leather aviator jacket with the practiced ease of a man who was completely comfortable in his own skin, a foreign notion to Arthur. The fur collar of the jacket had been framing his neck in a dramatic fashion prior to its untimely removal and Arthur found himself rather saddened by the loss. Even more so once he'd noticed the tragedy of a shirt Eames was wearing underneath. Arthur's eyes felt assaulted as he took in the garish teal vee neck, complete with a deeply stretched out collar. Upon closer inspection, there were several holes in the well-worn fabric. Clearly, this was a favorite shirt of his. That or the man couldn’t afford proper clothing. Judging by the quality of his outerwear, Arthur supposed the former was the case.

 

Eames hummed a little tune as he placed his jacket on a hanger before sliding it onto a clothing rack near the back of the studio. There, lined up in a neat row were several different button-down shirts of varying degrees of boggling color and design, all happily wrapped in plastic as if they’d just come fresh from the cleaners. (Ah, so the teal travesty was meant as an undershirt. Arthur supposed that was slightly more acceptable.) Thrown on top of the rack haphazardly was a burgundy cardigan which Eames tossed over his shoulder before moseying back to Arthur, who hadn’t moved an inch from his spot in front of the receptionist. He’d been too preoccupied drinking in every bit of new information on display before him. Arthur knew he was staring but he couldn't get over how Eames didn't seem to mind the horrifying combination his shirt and cardigan made. The two colors vibrated against each other, causing Arthur to blink rapidly in an attempt to refocus his attention elsewhere. 

 

Arthur looked down, finding the to-go cup in his hand distraction enough. He cleared his throat before speaking, lest he do something truly embarrassing, like have his voice crack in front of someone he hoped desperately to impress. “What did you just hand me?" 

 

“Hmm? Coffee. I handed you a coffee. Ethiopian. Their workshop blend. It's brilliant, luv.” He said this with a nod over his shoulder, motioning to the café the tattoo shop shared a wall with. Arthur stared at the white plastic lid of the cup in confusion.

 

“You bought me coffee.”

 

“You’ve come all the way from New York, my dear Arthur. It’s the least I could do.” He spread his heavily inked arms out in a welcoming gesture as he said this, smiling warmly. Arthur swallowed. First _luv_ and now _my dear_. What the hell was next - pumpkin? This wasn’t going at all how Arthur had pictured. Not that it was going badly, per se, just . . . he hadn’t expected pet names and hipster coffee from a world-famous, underground graffiti cum tattoo artist who prided himself on being mysterious. He didn’t think anyone would.

 

“Come ‘ere. Take a seat,” Eames said, patting the hideous monstrosity of a green leather barber’s chair in his station. It must have been at least eighty years old judging by the solid brass foot bar and nail heads punched into the chair back. The beauty of it made no sense to Arthur when juxtaposed against the solid black walnut mid-century mod credenza behind Eames that (he could only assume) served as his supply cabinet. Arthur may trust this man’s artistic mastery, but he was beginning to severely question his taste level.

 

Style discrepancies notwithstanding, Arthur nodded and shuffled forward, his un-sipped coffee still in hand.

 

“Don’t break my heart, luv.”

 

“What?”

 

Eames raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes looking to Arthur’s right hand.

 

“Oh!” Arthur took a hasty sip from his cup with only a minimal amount of frowning. The moment the warm liquid hit his tongue, he paused. He’d been ready to just swallow and move on, but this . . . this coffee was special. Its bright flavors burst over his tongue in a way that Arthur’s desperately low levels of caffeine greatly appreciated. Eames had been right.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

Huffing out an amused breath, Eames said, “told you,” and went to grab his laptop off a cluttered desk in the back corner. “Now, let’s look at the sketches you sent over.”

 

...

 

Twenty minutes passed before Arthur realized that they’d long since breezed off the topic of tattoos in favor of discussing Arthur’s favorite Egon Schiele self-portraits and his ardent love of the Neue Galerie on the upper East side. He recommended that Eames go visit while he was still stateside and promptly started rattling off precise directions to the museum.

 

“It’s right around the corner from The Met, which, I admit is a bit of a cliché New York destination, but worth it. They still have two of the pieces from your retrospective in 2015.”

 

At the direct reference of his artwork, Eames sat back from the little bubble the two of them had created around themselves. Arthur felt the loss of their shared connection immediately and looked up from a doodle in his moleskin to see Eames with a calculating expression his face, one eyebrow raised.

 

“You know who I am, then?”

 

Arthur grimaced. Shit. On the one hand, he wanted to scoff at Eames for being completely oblivious to his own raw magnetism--of course, he knew! On the other, Arthur had promised himself to play this off as if he _wasn’t_ sitting in the chair of a world-famous artist, not act as travel guide and give the man damn tourism advice. He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves skyrocketing, as he quickly gave up any hope of fabricating an on-the-fly lie.

 

Three agonizing seconds passed before he gave in to his mortification. “Fuck. Yes, I know who you are.”

 

Eames crossed his arms and leaned back further in his chair. He looked piqued, almost amused. It was rather unsettling. “Who told?”

 

“We have a mutual friend--Yusuf?”

 

To Arthur’s utter surprise, Eames threw his head back and hollered out a laugh so full of boisterous joy that Arthur had no choice but to scowl in confusion at the display.

 

“Am I supposed to understand what’s so funny?”

 

Eames shook his head. “Not at all, luv. It’s just that,” he paused, drawing a hand over his mouth as if he could wipe away the evidence of his own amusement, “Yusuf knows me entirely too well for my own good.”

 

Arthur’s frown deepened. “Still not following.”

 

“You’re not supposed to,” Eames said with a final chuckle before putting himself back to rights in his seat. They stared at each other for a beat, Arthur on uneasy ground, not knowing where he stood with Eames now that he’d released the cat out of the (rather flimsy) bag it’d been held in. Outside, a siren sounded, echoing down the avenue past the shop, its lights flashing across every surface of the studio. Arthur blinked, breaking whatever spell he’d just been held under.

 

Eames made a study of him. His gaze assessing in a way that caused electricity to crackle over Arthur’s skin. Arthur was seconds away from asking him exactly what he found so fascinating when Eames clapped his hands and rubbed them together, cutting off Arthur’s train of thought.

 

“Right. Back to business,” he said, and spun around to lay out his supplies.  

 

Eames was efficient with his work. Within ten minutes he’d printed out a transfer sketch, decluttered his station, donned the horribly outdated cardigan he’d had left draped over his shoulder for the past half hour, and readied his machine for battle with practiced ease.

 

Arthur had known where he’d wanted his newest piece placed since the idea for the tattoo had sprung forth from the flaming ashes of a hellish trip to Newport seven years prior for a god-awful family wedding. That particular weekend had left him with several gin-soaked memories that included (but were not limited to) him jumping off a pier into the harbor, arguing with three of his cousins (on two separate occasions) about the importance of a good pair of Oxfords, and calling an innocent (yet incompetent) shop assistant ‘swine’ when he failed to know who Mark Powell was despite the sign hanging above the shop door boasting of a twin location on Savile Row. His visit to the National Museum of American Illustration, and subsequent inspiration for what would become his next tattoo, was the only positive outcome of that weekend. But now, as he stood in Eames’ studio, unsteady fingers hovering over his belt buckle, he began to have second thoughts about his choice for the tattoo’s location.

 

And of course, to his profound embarrassment, Eames noticed. “Oh, don’t get shy on me now. I’m a professional. I can handle seeing your milky thighs.”

 

Arthur glared. Was he serious? At Eames’ wink, Arthur rolled his eyes, huffed, and flipped his belt open with quick movements, not wanting to linger in the awkward limbo that was undressing in front of a stranger for longer than necessary. He shucked his precious brogues and carefully stepped out of his best pair of trousers, lest they crease. After a brief moment of hesitation, mixed with a surge of panic at not wanting to seem forward, which he quickly quelled because _honestly_ \--Arthur made a snap decision to take off his button down. He was still wearing an undershirt but it was warm in the studio, and getting inked always left Arthur feeling heated from the inside out. Best not to sweat through fine tailoring.  

 

Arthur folded his clothes and placed them with delicate hands on the credenza, safely out of harm’s way. He was startled to notice Eames' intense gaze following his every move and did his best to ignore it, despite being fascinated by the sight. It was an uncomfortable bit of knowledge, realizing that the man Arthur had idolized for years seemed to find his sinewy, too-slim body attractive. Arthur had never considered Eames’ sexuality when studying his work in the past--it had nothing to do with his art, which tended to focus on the political and the emotional, rather than the personal. The notion that Eames might be gay had never occurred to him before.

 

It did now. Being examined like an object of, dare Arthur think it, desire, had him itching for the half Xanax in his trouser pocket, now stashed pitifully out of reach. Shit.

 

He came to stand in front of a full-length mirror in nothing but black socks, boxers, and undershirt, feeling as naked as the day he’d been born. His nerves pooled in his belly, mixing with the riptide of emotion currently making its way through Arthur’s system. He balled his hands into fists and held them tightly behind his back as Eames slumped down low in front of him, bending onto one knee in a single fluid movement. Arthur held his breath. Before him in the mirror he saw Eames crouched, head bent to task, broad, muscled shoulders shifting as he quickly shaved Arthur’s upper leg with a pink Bic razor, wiped it clean, and placed the first part of the transfer sketch deftly along Arthur’s right thigh, the gentle pads of his fingertips branding his skin.  The tattoo would require a two piece application, one for the back of his thigh as well, and Arthur shivered at the prospect of those fingers trailing over the back of his leg.

 

“How’s that, then?” Eames asked, looking up at Arthur from his place on the floor. Arthur didn’t dare look back at him. Instead, he sidestepped around Eames’ hunched form, coming closer to the mirror to gaze at the temporary purple lines of his soon-to-be-tattoo.

 

“Wow.”

 

Eames hummed in agreement. The purple image depicted a series of men’s illustrated faces, mostly in profile, running along in a solid stripe that would fill in three inches of his pearl-white skin with varying levels of grey and black ink, only to disperse into the shapes of birds along the back of his thigh, flying off into the non-distance of a forever horizon never to be defined. The image had been inspired by a J.C. Leyendecker advertisement from the twenties that now proudly hung in a grand old jazz-age house-turned-museum in Newport. Arthur smiled at the irony, reluctantly thanking his cousin Aaron for marrying that damned Dartmouth gold-digger.

 

Arthur had never seen that particular advertisement until that fateful weekend in Rhode Island, but even so, Leyendecker had been one of Arthur’s heroes in school. His unabashed use of his longtime partner as a model in his pieces, and the generous way he’d freely expressed the beauty of the male body was appealing in the extreme. Arthur had based his thesis on the man’s work and continued to reference him in his writings for his master’s three years later.

 

Being able to see one of Leyendecker’s illustrations adorn his body in the subversive way Arthur had chosen felt like quite an accomplishment after all those years of waiting for the right moment and the right artist.

 

Despite his nerves, his growing infatuation with the sheer presence of the man behind him, and the fact that he was painfully close to embarrassing himself in a very blatant way, Arthur grinned because it was finally happening--he was getting his tattoo. He caught Eames’ eye in the mirror, antsy with anticipation, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. The prick of the needle would soon breach his skin, allowing his mind to go blank with the feeling of numbing pleasure-pain, releasing him from all of his anxieties. For the next few hours, he’d be free to just breathe. This was why he’d left his beloved Brooklyn to visit this god-forsaken city. This was why he was here.

 

“It’s perfect.”

 

Eames’ full mouth smirked up at him from behind Arthur’s hip. He’d shifted back, resting on the floor, one strong arm draped over the triangle of his knee. To Arthur’s surprise, he pointed to the faded lines of his first tattoo, his head tilting to the side in a show of recognition.

 

“I’ve always liked that photograph.”

 

Arthur couldn’t help the broad-faced, beaming smile he gave Eames at that statement. He was blushing and he knew it, but he didn’t care. It was one of those moments, those special, shared moments when everything goes hazy with the joy of the fleeting, perfect _now_ , and Arthur couldn’t help but preen. Eames liked his tattoo.

 

“It was my first.”

 

Eames nodded, his eyes kind, knowing. “Want a touch-up?”

 

Taken aback, Arthur turned to stare down at Eames properly. “What?”

 

“I wouldn’t charge you, luv.”

 

Arthur frowned and shook his head. “That’s not . . . no. I mean . . . “ he cut himself off before he could babble any further, not knowing where that sentence was heading, and not wanting to make a fool of himself attempting to find its conclusion. Eames was watching him from his perch on the floor, head tilted back, assessing, quiet, and entirely too disarming for Arthur’s liking. He couldn’t possibly know what that tattoo meant to him, or how its connection to his mother filled him with a sick mixture of sweet nostalgia at the memory of them in that London tattoo parlour all those years ago and simultaneous simmering rage at having her ripped from him too soon afterwards. Eames couldn’t know all that. He couldn’t. He was just a nice guy, offering a touch up because he appreciated the image. _Get your shit together._ Arthur shook his head and forced his features into what he hoped was a pleasant expression.

 

“Sure. I mean, yes. Thank you.”

 

Eames’ mouth twitched in the slightest indication of a smile. He was still staring at Arthur in a way that made him feel as if his very deepest secrets were being extracted from his mind one by one. It was unnerving. Arthur turned away from those too-sharp eyes and walked back to the credenza, in need of that damn pill he’d forgotten to take earlier, lest he embarrass himself any further. He used the leftovers of his cold coffee to down the pill in one swallow and took an extra moment to steady himself, hands splayed on the cool walnut below him, head bowed between his shoulders.

 

A warm hand came to rest on Arthur’s shoulder and he nearly jumped. Arthur wasn’t used to people casually touching him. On the contrary, Arthur tended to avoid most people, he preferred it that way.

 

“Hey, now. Didn’t mean to startle you, luv, but you seemed . . .”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Right.” There was a pregnant pause, and then Eames dropped his hand. Arthur cursed at his inconvenient default reaction to most people. He had never been good with accepting affection of any kind, no matter the circumstance. He’d always been steadfast and solitary, the rock upon which others (well, at least his father) used for support - not the other way around. Eames was just trying to be kind, and Arthur had responded as if he’d burned him.

 

Arthur sensed Eames moving away from him, the feel of the man’s body heat at his back receding with every step. Arthur slumped further, hating himself for acting like an asshole. He’d appreciated Eames’ attempt at comfort, he just didn’t know how to say it.

 

“How ‘bout we just get started, then, hmm?” Eames’ voice was more clipped than before. Arthur couldn’t blame him.

 

Arthur turned back to the studio at large and plopped himself into the barber’s chair, determined. “Let’s do this,” he said.

 

Eames nodded and snapped on a pair of black latex gloves. His continual flare for drama did not escape Arthur’s notice and despite his current state of mind, he had to turn his head into his shoulder to hide a reluctant smile. Eames sat in his rolling chair and scooted forwards, whistling a tuneless song as he broke open a new needle and attached the sterilized tip to his liner machine. The first buzz of liquid power filled the air not a moment later, and Arthur heard Eames audibly growl along with the sound, as if he were revving the engine of a car. Turning his head, Arthur watched in bewilderment as Eames pressed the cool metal to his lips, closed his eyes, and recited a wordless mantra before bending over Arthur’s leg, ready to start his work. Arthur couldn’t hold it in any longer and snorted because Eames was fucking ridiculous.

 

Eames looked up at the sound of Arthur’s laughter and winked. The tension between them melted and Arthur sighed, relieved.

 

…

 

“This will be a stunner,” Eames mused, fifteen minutes later as he paused to dip the needle in fresh ink. The studio around them was quiet save for the low notes of an instrumental soundtrack playing from a speaker nearby. Arthur silently thanked whoever was on music duty that day for the glorious lack of thrasher rock. He didn’t think his ears could take the beating.

 

The Xanax had started to do its job, and Arthur was letting the lulling buzz of the machine and the gentle sound of strings distract him from the way Eames had draped himself over Arthur’s lower body - his forearm pressed heavily against Arthur’s leg, the possessive pressure of Eames’ hand holding his knee steady. Arthur could feel warm breath ghosting over his thigh as Eames hummed through certain passes with the needle and, for a fleeting moment, wondered what that warm breath would taste like on Arthur’s tongue. It was a dangerous thought to have in his current position, and he refocused on the dragging pull-sting of the machine.

 

Eames’ palm was hot against his skin but dry, professional. It was clear that he had entered a hypnotized state as he worked, no indication of any other motives behind his movements except perfect execution.

 

“What’s this about, then, hmm?” Eames asked, his eyes looking up to Arthur’s from under his lashes with an expectant smirk. Arthur lifted his head from where it’d been resting on the chair back, unable to stop his frown as he looked down at the man. He’d been content and dreamily shifting in and out of consciousness until that dreaded, painfully cliché question. _Shit._

 

This was the part that Arthur always hated the most, the ‘tell me your life story because clearly this means something to you, hence inking it permanently onto your body’ bit that any self-respecting tattoo artist would be kind enough to ask their client. The problem was, Arthur despised explaining his reasons behind his tattoos. Why couldn’t there be an air of mystery about these things? The artists whose chairs he’d sat in over the years were not his therapists - in fact, he had a perfectly good therapist. She worked in Carroll Gardens out of a tiny studio apartment and on several occasions had made Arthur cry, which she insisted represented a ‘beautiful release of repressed emotion’ or whatever. The point being, he wasn’t paying Eames for therapy, he was paying him for artistry.

 

Eames had lifted the machine off of Arthur’s thigh and sat back in his chair with a serene expression on his face, the physical embodiment of endless patience. He was expecting an answer. Arthur wanted to kick him. Just a little.

 

“Um.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair then cursed, knowing he’d just ruffled it into an impossible mess.

 

Eames chuckled, which was the most horrifying reaction Arthur could think of receiving from someone he admired while feeling insecure about his hair. “It’s alright, Arthur. You don’t have to tell me.”

 

For some reason, that made Arthur’s hackles rise. He knew he didn’t _have_ to tell him, but dammit, now he _wanted_ to tell him. He shoved a hand through his hair again and huffed, hating that he was so easily manipulated.

 

“It’s . . . you’ll think it’s stupid but, fuck it, it’s a--”

 

“Leyendecker advertisement. Cigarettes, right?”

 

Arthur came up short, almost choking on air. “The fuck?”

 

Eames laughed, removing the machine, once again, from Arthur’s skin. “I studied art history in uni, my dear Arthur. I did learn a few things.”

 

“You went to college?” The patronizing question was out of Arthur’s mouth before he could even think to process how it’d sound--like Arthur thought of Eames as no more than street trash who’d made it big. He bit his lip, hating himself.

 

“Such condescension. Tsk, tsk.” Eames slapped him lightly on his opposite thigh, gave him a wink, which Arthur could tell was purely to maintain civility between them, and touched his needle back to Arthur’s skin. He’d dropped the subject so easily. Too easily. Like a man who was used to being thought of as _less than_ , despite his success. It ate at Arthur from the inside out. Not for the first time that day, he wished he could turn back the clock.

 

Arthur’s hands curled into fists on the arms of the barber’s chair as he tried to maintain his composure. He bit back nearly a dozen failed apologies before he’d strung together a series of words in his mind that didn’t make him sound like a babbling fool.

 

“I didn’t mean that as . . fuck. I know you’re educated. You’re a genius. I just . . . “

 

Eloquence, it seemed, had left Arthur to die on a heaping pile of his own bullshit. He grit his teeth and looked away, feeling worse as the seconds ticked by, the silence between them growing into an ever larger void.

 

A large hand, splayed wide and impossibly warm on his leg, fingers curving round to the sensitive skin at the back of his knee. Arthur flinched but Eames held steady, his machine safely pulled away, his eyes intent.

 

“I’m a big boy, luv. Relax.”

 

The command simply made Arthur tense up more. Eames sighed, placing down his machine and bringing both hands up to take hold of Arthur’s, scooting his chair between the vee of his thighs.

 

“Look at these,” he said, rubbing his thumbs over the back of Arthur’s whitened knuckles. “You’re going to snap in two if you keep clenching--”

 

“I’m not--”

 

“Breathe, luv. Just breathe.”

 

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Eames raised an eyebrow at him and rubbed harder at the back of his palms, forcing his fingers to lessen their vice-like grip. With a reluctant sigh, he allowed Eames to ease his hands back to a relaxed state and found himself mimicking the flow of Eames’ calming breaths--in and out, in and out.

 

“There, now.” Satisfied, Eames pushed back from Arthur’s legs and resumed his position with his needle, not letting the moment linger.

 

Arthur was about to thank him when Eames started to say, “I like how you altered this, morphing the negative space into bird wings. It’s lovely.”

 

“Thank you. It’s derivative of Escher with the birds, I know, but--“ Arthur forced himself to stop talking, lest he end up babbling about his pathetic insecurities and how he always felt a fraud when it came to his art.

 

“All art is derived from something, darling.”

 

Arthur paused at that, considering. “You do have a point.”

 

“I know I do,” Eames said, sending a flash of a grin Arthur’s way.

 

Arthur huffed out a cynical laugh. “Despite your point. There’s derivative and then there’s boring.”

 

“You think you’re boring?” The question was abrupt. Disbelieving.

 

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He knew the truth. “Yes.”

 

Eames just stared at him, his brows furrowing, eyes growing sad--Arthur couldn’t stand it. He looked away, feeling too vulnerable to accept the pity he saw sitting across from him.

 

“You don’t see yourself at all, do you?”

 

Arthur’s head whipped back, immediately furious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Eames pulled the needle away from Arthur’s skin and turned before Arthur could get a read on his expression. “Ignore me,” he said as he fussed over his equipment, humming in a distracting way.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Time to turn over.”

 

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut. Eames was done with the conversation and it was clear that no amount of Arthur’s scowling was going to change that. He cringed, thinking of how he could have just accepted the compliment and moved on. But no, Arthur had to elaborate, didn’t he? And now, Eames wouldn’t even look him in the eye.

 

Arthur sighed and stood from the chair, letting Eames layer ointment on the front of his thigh. He placed protective plastic over Arthur’s sensitive skin before moving to fold back the barber’s chair into a flat surface Arthur could lie down on. Eames draped fresh paper over the green leather, silent but swift, and waited for Arthur to sprawl across it before lining up the new transfer sketch on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur was grateful for the excuse to look away from the scrutiny of Eames’ face. It was cowardly and he knew it, but he didn’t want to see his own negativity reflected in Eames’ eyes.

 

...

 

Time slipped by in a haze of dozing consciousness and forced, civil conversation punctuated by the _buzz_ -stop _-buzz_ of the tattoo machine. Eames was being polite, reserved, barely even speaking. All air of flirtation gone from his demeanor, which was both relieving and horrible. The tension was building between them brick by brick with each passing minute, climbing up Arthur’s throat, choking him from the inside out. The experience was turning into one of the most stifling of Arthur’s life.

 

 _Say something_. His inner voice echoed in his head, refusing to let him give in to the promise of sleep as he pillowed his cheek on his arms and shut his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to breathe.

 

For the foreseeable future, he didn’t dare look at his watch. He heard it ticking its terrible, monotonous rhythm not three inches from his face, but refused to spare it glance. Knowing the time wouldn’t help.

 

When Eames cleared his throat and said, “right, that’s done,” Arthur lifted his head from where it rested on his forearm, slightly dazed. It seemed that he had fallen asleep after all.

 

He began to sit up, only to feel Eames’ hand press down on the small of his back.

 

“One moment, luv.”

 

The sensation of cool, soothing gel covered his overheated skin, making Arthur hiss. It felt good. He slumped back down, and buried his face in his arms, willing himself not to whimper. At the final swipe of ointment on across the back of his knee, Arthur sighed in relief, his entire body leaching out the tension it’d been holding onto for the last few hours. It was over. Finished. Done. Arthur could leave and remove himself from further embarrassment.

 

He’d try his best to look back on the day in a positive light, perhaps have his therapist help him out with focusing on the good parts and eradicating the negative from his mind. He’d walk away with the ability to say that he gotten inked by the one-and-only Eames, and eventually, hopefully, Eames would forget that some scrawny kid from New York ever darkened his door in the first place.

 

Eames helped him up and kept a hand hovering at the curve of Arthur’s hip as if he expected him to topple over where he stood. They walked together towards the full-length mirror, Arthur shuffling on shaky legs. Standing there, Arthur blinked back the sting of tears as he took in the entirety of the piece for the first time, fully realized and beautifully vivid against his raw, pink skin.

 

“Holy shit.”

 

He turned, looking over his shoulder to see the back of the three-inch garter where it dispersed into a murder of crows along his thigh, trailing below the crease of his buttcheek and down to just above the bend of his knee. The birds were erratic, almost violent, flapping in all directions. It was clear that Eames had put his artistry into the composition, adding a level of beauty that Arthur had been unable to capture in his own design. The final result left Arthur choking back a tightness in his throat.  

 

Tilting his head, he wondered if Eames somehow knew what those birds meant to Arthur. How they symbolized the chaos of his mind and how he preferred to keep that hidden from public view, hence their placement in a location Arthur couldn’t see. Compared to the men running in a strip along the front of his thigh with their slicked back hair and crisp, starched shirts acting as mirrors to the way Arthur presented himself to the world.

 

Eames stepped away, letting Arthur have a moment of privacy. He leaned one hip against his desk, arms folding across his chest as he explained to Arthur the fundamentals of aftercare for his tattoo and jotted down the brand of scent-free lotion Arthur should purchase. Arthur took the Post-It without looking away from the mirror, nodding absently. Eames came into his line of vision not a moment later, sliding down to one knee in front of him. Startled, Arthur closed his eyes against the sight of Eames wrapping his leg in cling-film, his head entirely too close to Arthur’s hip for his brain to handle.

 

“Right.” Eames squeezed Arthur’s calf to get his attention. “You can get dressed now.”

 

Stepping away from Eames’ body heat, Arthur gladly did as he was told.

 

Arthur was pulling his arms through the sleeves of his Belstaff coat when Eames attempted a bit of conversation.

 

“You sat like a rock, luv. Bravo.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur said, stretching his arms above his head and hearing the delicious pop of his spine cracking before flipping his coat collar with a decisive twist of his wrist. “I’ve always enjoyed the pain.”

 

Eames’ eyebrow raised into his hairline and Arthur cursed. “Shit, I mean. Not like _that_. It’s more, a soothing pressure that helps me disassociate. It calms my brain.”

 

This was met with light, teasing laughter. “Don’t worry, I understand. The hypnotizing lull of the machine charms us all.”

 

“Yeah.” Arthur nodded, a hesitant smile crossing his face.

 

They seemed to be on level ground and Arthur took a chance. He extended his hand. “Thank you, Mr. _Rogers_.”

 

Eames smirked, his palm warm and solid in Arthur’s hand. “My pleasure. And please, come back for that touch-up,” he pointed to Arthur’s other thigh. “I meant what I said.”

 

Arthur agreed to make an appointment with the receptionist, having every intention of canceling as soon as he was out of the magnetic orbit of Eames’ confounding world. He needed to get back to Brooklyn, to his slate sidewalks and brownstone-lined streets, where people politely ignored him and the coffee was dark and bitter, not light and full of bright citrus flavor.

 

That thought sidetracked him as he walked out of the shop, and he turned to look at the café Eames had gotten coffee from earlier that afternoon. There was a red neon arrow attached to the brick above the wooden double doors, pointing down at the welcome mat on the pavement, beckoning him. He should have been drinking water, hydrating after what he’d just put his body through, but coffee for the trip north did sound rather appealing. Mind made up, he headed towards the neon sign.

 

He was reaching for the large oak slab of the café door when he heard a chime ring out behind him in the direction of the tattoo parlour. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Eames, eyes quickly scanning the street before honing in on Arthur, twenty feet away. Eames’ face was alight with the kind of mischief that made Arthur’s pulse pound. Three seconds. Three blissful seconds of freedom was all he had before seeing that face again.

 

Arthur blinked at him--taking in the solid bulk of his shoulders covered in horrid knitwear that tapered down to a pair of anachronistic pleated pants which did nothing for his figure. Arthur noticed Eames’ chest rising and falling with each heavy breath he took, his eyes focused on Arthur, intent and steady. It seemed as though he wanted to say something but remained silent. They hovered in suspended time together on the pavement, Arthur’s hand forgotten on the door handle.

 

“Was there--”

 

“Can I buy you a coffee?” Eames said, cutting off Arthur’s question.

 

“You already bought me a coffee.”

 

“Another one, then. Or, no, something stronger. Gin n’ tonic, perhaps?”

Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was Eames serious - he wanted to spend _more_ time in Arthur’s condescending presence after the tension-filled hell of the past four hours? Was he a masochist? Arthur’s temper flared just as his stomach growled. Right. He hadn’t eaten all day. Shit. He rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. He was exhausted and clearly in need of carbohydrates. The combination made him want to punch something. Mostly Eames. Instead, he turned on his heel and headed towards the El, determined to be rid of Eames and his intoxicating presence.

 

Ignoring his own inner desires was something Arthur was very good at, especially when fueled by his severe lack of self-esteem. He’d repeatedly humiliated himself throughout the day, and despite being quite used to such things, had grown weary from the mental onslaught. He needed a respite from the constant stream of _shitfuckshit_ his brain had on loop. He needed fresh, Eames-free air. He needed a damn sandwich.

 

“Wait,” he heard Eames call behind him, chasing him down the pavement. Arthur stopped but refused to turn around. Eames, taking Arthur’s hesitancy as encouragement, continued. “I was hoping you’d be heading to the café just now. I wanted the chance to buy you, well if not a coffee or a drink, then perhaps a scone?”

 

Arthur snorted. He bent at the waist, sick amusement filling him as he continued to laugh, bracing his hands on his knees. He really did need to eat something. He was losing his damn mind.

 

Eames cleared his throat and tried again. “Luv, listen, I only--”

 

“Stop. Calling me, _luv_.”

 

“Darling?”

 

“No.”

 

“Artie?”

 

“Fuck, no.”

 

“Petal?”

 

Arthur turned around, one furious eyebrow touching his hairline. “Are you for fucking real?”

 

Eames grinned, splaying his arms wide, like he’d had all those hours ago, at the beginning of the day when things hadn’t gone to utter shit in Arthur’s world. “‘Course, I’m real. I’m right here.”

 

“And you actually want to buy me a drink?”

 

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

 

“Actually, you said a scone.”

 

“Only if you prefer a scone to a drink.”

 

“You want to buy me a scone?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The asshole who’s been a condescending little shit to you all day?”

 

At this, Eames’ face fell, his smile morphing into a look of concern. “Arthur, is that what--”

 

Arthur didn’t let him finish. “Oh come on, just say it, I know you’ve been thinking it - I’m an ass.  Look. You’ve been exceedingly patient with me, and the tattoo is fucking gorgeous, and I thank you, but please, you don’t actually want to--”

 

“What makes you think I don’t know exactly what I want, Arthur?”

 

Arthur was stunned to silence, not only by the sudden interruption and Eames’ voice taking on a note of aggression that he’d yet to hear from the man, but the fact that he’d used Arthur’s name. Not _luv_ , not _my dear_ , not fucking _petal_ , just Arthur. Taking a step back, Arthur swallowed.

 

Eames pointed back at the red brick building behind them. “I’ve spent the past three hours with you in my chair, pliant and perfect, putty in my hands, barely breathing in fear that I dreamed you up. I was terrified of turning ‘round, thinking that if I let you out of my sight for one second you’d disappear. ”

 

Arthur didn’t know how to take that so, instead of being an adult about things, he snapped, “yeah, well, I’m no one’s dream, except for maybe my therapist’s. I’ve got nothing to offer anyone except for a fuckton of baggage.”  

 

Eames shook his head, a harsh smile crossing his face. “You’re talking to a man who’s hiding from his life half a world away, you think I don’t come with baggage?”

 

“So knowing _exactly what you want_ means running when things get too intense?”

 

Eames’ eyes flashed for just a second before he pulled himself back, his face a mask of feigned indifference.

 

Arthur grinned, sensing a weakness. “That’s it, isn’t it? See something you like, have it, then move on?”

“Fuck,” Eames threw his hands in the air, spinning with the motion. It was the first time Arthur had seen him lose his ever-present cool and something victorious jumped in his belly. “Liking what I see in front of me, and leaving England do _not_ go hand in hand. The two are mutually exclusive. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

 

“Shame. It’s such a pretty mouth.”

 

Arthur’s eyes widened as soon as he realized what he’d said. Where the fuck had that come from? Eames glanced back at him over his shoulder, a look of quizzical astonishment crossing his face.

 

Arthur took that moment to stalk off, cursing at himself as he went. What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t get through one day without alienating himself from someone. This morning, everything seemed so full of potential, so god-damned hopeful and now he was walking away from what was supposed to have been one of the most profound experiences of his life. He was the one running away like a coward. Not Eames. Him.

 

Footsteps sounded on the pavement behind him and Arthur stiffened, ready for whatever would be hurled his way.

 

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Eames said, his voice, though breathless, was back to its patient, coaxing drawl.

 

All Arthur could do was laugh, humorless and hollow. Eames ignored it.  

 

“I offered to touch up your tattoo, not because I’m a good guy, far from it, but because I wanted to keep you for as long as I could have you in that chair. The more you spoke, the more I wanted you.” Here he paused, holding up a finger. “And before you jump to nefarious conclusions, yes, I very much want that but not _just_ that. I want everything, Arthur. I’m a selfish man, and I’ve gambled on a lot of things, but I’m not willing to gamble on you leaving here today without me having at least offered to buy you a drink because I know for a fact that you weren’t planning on coming back, and I can’t have that.”

 

Arthur was thrown off balance by the confession, his world spinning so rapidly, it felt like a sudden loss of gravity. He was left not knowing where to step next. Slowly, he turned.

 

Eames held eye contact with him as he took two, very deliberate steps forward, erasing any space left between them. He made a show of raising his arms, letting Arthur know his intention before placing his palms on either shoulder, crowding him, keeping him close. Arthur held his breath, equal parts thrilled and terrified to know what came next.

 

“In two seconds, I’m going to kiss you.”

 

“Okay,” Arthur breathed.

 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you.” Eames’ hands skirted up the sides of Arthur’s neck, his fingers trailing just below his hairline. “All afternoon.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’m being as blatant as I can. I know what I want, Arthur. Do you?”

 

Arthur nodded, his voice failing him. Why he was nodding, he had no clue. He didn’t know if he wanted to flee, punch Eames in the face, or kiss him. His amount of indecision was baffling. He really needed a sandwich.

 

“Why I left England is a story I will gladly tell you another day. But know this: I never run from the things that hold my interest. On the contrary, I cling to them.” One hand had traveled to the back of Arthur’s skull, cradling him closer. The thumb of the other hand brushed over Arthur’s mouth, sending a shock of arousal down his spine.

 

“It’s also important for you to know that I do not do things by halves, luv,” Eames said, tugging lightly at the hair he’d been carding through his fingers. Arthur closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling too much to maintain any semblance of self-control.

 

“You like that, do you?” Eames teased, voice smug. “Why don’t I--”

 

Arthur couldn’t take it anymore, he shut Eames up with a kiss before any more beautiful words could come out of that beautiful mouth. He was done with talking. His arms came up to wrap hard around Eames’ neck, his entire body going flush against him. The taste of Eames was like the local coffee, tart and sweet, and Arthur drank it in, unable to stop. He hissed as he felt the sting of his freshly inked skin shift harshly against the protective plastic beneath his trousers, and pulled back. Eames felt the retreat and clamped his arms tightly around him, pulling Arthur closer. Arthur laughed into Eames’ mouth, because he was, in fact, _clinging_ to him.

 

Wincing at the pain, Arthur said, “Eames, I’m not going anywhere, I just--” he pushed back a little, shoving his knee into Eames’ thigh as a reminder. The second he did, Eames jumped back, his eyes wide with realization.

 

“Oh, luv. I’m sorry.” He looked down at Arthur’s thigh, worry creasing his brow and cursed under his breath. “I’m an animal. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

Strong hands were dragging him back to the studio before Arthur could even tell him that it was okay. It was clear that Eames wouldn’t listen even if he could get the words out past his thoroughly kissed lips. They were already inside, Eames hustling Arthur back to his station, apologizing the entire way.

 

“You’re so fucking British.” Arthur found the number of times he could say _sorry_ in a single sentence oddly endearing. Eames ignored him as he manhandled him to stand in front of the chair, and started undoing his belt and trouser buttons. “Whoa there . . .”

 

Eames looked up at Arthur, his eyes sharp as talons. “Hold that thought, luv. I have to check that I didn’t bugger up your perfect skin.”

 

Smiling in disbelief, Arthur asked, “you think I have perfect skin?”

 

“Don’t condescend to me, darling. I’m a very smart man.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Yes. You have gorgeous skin. I’d very much like to worship it at your earliest convenience. Beyond that, I want to go over every piece of art anyone else has ever branded you with and eradicate any trace of them, leaving only my work behind, because I’m a savage, selfish bastard and I have no qualms in admitting it. And, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to one day get you out of these terribly posh clothes. . . again.” He said this as he nearly ripped Arthur’s trousers from his hips, causing Arthur to grunt at the movement. The sound did not escape Eames’ notice and he grinned.  Arthur’s stomach flipped at the sight. He was in so much trouble.

 

Behind them, they heard a cough, loud and very clear in its indication of _tone it the fuck down, boys_. Arthur hadn’t considered that anyone else would still be in the building, let alone the receptionist not ten feet away. He instantly turned red. Eames didn’t even blink.

 

“All in the name of art, right Ari?” he called, deftly checking the clingfilm covering and the condition of Arthur’s raw skin beneath it.

 

This was met with a laugh and a, “watch yourself, this is a place of business.” The words were punctuated by a harsh flip of a page.

 

“How’s that book, dear?”

 

“They haven’t fucked yet.”

 

“Hmm. Pity. What chapter?”

 

“Three.”

 

“Ah, you’re almost there.”

 

“These bullshit prose better be worth it.”

 

“Rimming is always worth it, luv.”

 

Eames looked at Arthur, noting the color on his cheeks, and shrugged apologetically. “Reading shite romance novels is quite entertaining,” he explained.

 

“But, rimming?” Arthur blurted out.

 

Eames threw his head back and laughed while Ari called from the desk, “they’re gay romances,” as if she were telling him something as innocuous as the weather.

 

While Arthur was boggling over the strange wonderland dreamscape he had unexpectedly fallen into within the past three minutes, Eames had put his clothes back to rights and was standing in front of him with a smug look on his face.

 

“Now. Three things,” Eames said, lifting his fingers as he went. “One, I like you, very much and I would like to see you outside the professional realm of my job. Two, the feeling appears to be mutual judging by that rather aggressive kiss you laid on me outside.” Eames held up his other hand before Arthur could argue. “And three, I would very much like to take you to dinner. Please do me the honor of saying yes.”

 

Eames held his palm out and his chin high, the picture of a gentleman waiting for his partner to take his hand. As if on cue, Arthur’s stomach growled. Eames grinned at him, his eyebrows rising expectantly. Arthur sighed, wanting to say too many things at once and deciding that saying none of them was the best course of action, lest he put his foot in his mouth. Again.

 

He stepped forward and took Eames’ hand in his, and after a moment’s hesitation, laced their fingers together. Beaming, Eames dipped his head and kissed the back of Arthur’s palm. It was loud, it was wet, it was over the top and obnoxious and Arthur wanted to smack him. He also wanted to kiss him. He was clearly too hungry to make decisions.

 

“Let me get my coat and we’ll be off. I do hope you don’t have to catch a train.”

 

Arthur did. It was scheduled to leave Pennsylvania Station at 9:14 pm. The pink ticket slip sat in the breast pocket of his jacket, waiting to be of use. He looked at Eames, the air heavy with the swell of untapped potential simmering between them.

 

“No. I’m good.”

 

Eames grinned, flipping his jacket collar up and striding forward to wrap Arthur into a bear of a hug. “Excellent, my dear. In that case, let me show you the town.”

 

The doorbell chimed on their way out, Eames using two fingers to whistle for a taxi as they went. Arthur, it seemed, wouldn’t be catching any trains for quite some time.

 

Fin.

* * *

 

_I hope you enjoyed it, Versions! Happy S.C. day!_

The wonderous _TheCrimsonClub_ on Tumblr created [ART](https://thecrimsonclub.tumblr.com/post/183658355848/a-piece-i-made-inspired-by-a-arthureames) inspired by this story! Go check it out! 

**Author's Note:**

> The neighborhood of Philly I described in this story no longer exists. It’s now gentrification central. However, it’s more fun for Arthur to be overwhelmed by the grime, being the posh New Yorker that he is, so I tortured him a bit. Please forgive me.
> 
> I’m not a tattoo artist, I have an understanding of the process but that’s all. If there are any blatant mistakes, please do tell me and I’ll fix them, post haste.
> 
> Image references to Arthur's first tattoo and the piece he gets from Eames will (eventually) be posted on my Tumblr after all is revealed.


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